Every Once in a While
by Zima Zimavich
Summary: Russia thinks Hungary's hands are wonderful. De-anon from the kink meme; prompt was bare-hand intimacy, based on a headcanon that, for older nations, going glove-less is a big thing to be shared only with those intimately close.


**A/N: **Wow look at this an actual de-anon. It was fun to write, I wish I had a better grasp on Hungary's character so I could write these two more (but! I will!). I think I got her name right this time. I hope so.

—

Seeing Erzsébet's hands was a rare thing. Ivan cherished every moment with them — with _her_ — and he pulled them up some nights when sleep would not come and haunting memories of the past plagued him. The thought of her smooth and rough hands — stroking, petting him, rubbing and massaging them — always drove away bad thought and cleared the path to sleep.

As always, the thing itself is better than any memory can be: while he can _think_ he feels her touch, hears her breathing, smells her skin and hair and lotion, he cannot actually.

They have…a bit of a system, Erzsébet and Ivan. She never says if she plans to come over, he never calls to see if she will. She just shows up, at whatever hour of the day, and Ivan is always there to welcome her. He invites her in, for tea, perhaps, with tea cakes? Erzsébet accepts, will sit in the couch, and waits until he returns to remove her gloves.

If Ivan has been good, she will let him do it. Only, though, if he has not threatened others for joining the EU, or made fun of someone without proper cause, bullied, threatened, invaded someone —

Sometimes he is good, and sometimes he is not. Regardless, the entire affair is a treat.

When he comes back with the tea and cakes, the gloves are removed and the fun begins.

Russia and Hungary are both older nations. Ivan and Erzsébet are not old _per se_, but they're not as young as, say, those North American brothers. It is apparent in their hands, their age. Erzsébet's (Ivan notices, for the umpteenth time as he inspects them) are still rough and slightly calloused on her palm. He knows she used the a lot, when they were younger. Even when she became more 'feminine', she still would dig in her garden, sew (and prick herself — she'd never been a very good seamstress), clean.

(He did regret, of course, that time not so far in the past when she's have to stay with him, where he'd make her clean and scrub and wash dishes or laundry. Her hands were always dry and cracked and bleeding then, and he was not allowed to see them.)

He traces her veins from her wrist up until he doesn't see them anymore. Next, he works on her scars. These are harder to find than her veins — most scars are old and have faded to a shade or two lighter than her skin. A few, on her right palm, the left side of the back of her left hand, and where her heart line should be, are the tiny caterpillars left behind by hasty stitching. Erzsébet's right pinky didn't heal quite right after she broke it in one war or other, and Ivan massages it for a moment before moving on. With light, feathery touches, he strokes scars wrapped around her fingers, small ones on the pad of her thumb, a zig-zag on the back of her right hand (the most recent, a result of a rather unfortunate knife accident). Slowly, slowly, Ivan lifts that hand to his lips, eyes on hers, asking permission, But her eyes are closed, so he presses her hand to his lips and gives the scar a soft kiss. He strokes the backs of her hands as he moves on to inspect her fingers.

Erzsébet's fingers are thin and not at the same time. They are long, with large knuckles. (Sometimes she complains that she has "man hands" and, while Ivan laughs at her, they both know she doesn't actually mind.) Her fingernails are, are…it varies. He's never seen so much variety in nails before. His elder sister always had short, choppy nails, his younger sister's were always manicured and perfect, and his were…he'd cut them when they got long, if he remembered. But _her's_, _Erzsébet's_, change like the wind. Sometimes they are short and dirty, or shot and ragged, or painted, or long and cut like talons, or painted, dirty, any combination thereof. (Once, she wore cheap stick-on nails and laughed when they came off in his hair.)

When he finishes with one hand, and then the other (stroking and massaging as he goes), she takes over. Erzsébet strokes his cheeks, pets his shoulders and neck, runs her fingers through his hair, and —

She always stays the night, but is always gone in the morning.

He wonders if she enjoys it as much as he does. She must, if she keeps coming back.


End file.
